Chapter Twelve
In which Andrey works the room.
Andrey…
"I'm surprised it's all business for you this morning," Trofim says as he meets me at my car. "Here I thought you would be telling me to fuel up your jet, that you would be taking your lovely new bride to the Bahamas, maybe Paris. Where do chicks like to go these days for their honeymoon?"
"First," I say, rapidly texting my brother, "you do not call them chicks. This is why you never have a steady girlfriend."
"Me? I do fine with women!" Trofim protests. "At least I'm interested in dating, unlike you."
"I can't date." My attention is still on my phone. "I am a married man."
"Well, at least you have an excuse now," he says, checking our surroundings again before climbing in after me.
"You are aware that I would never allow anyone else to speak to me like this, yes?" I stop texting long enough to eye his smirking face. I'd like to wipe that expression off his face with a cast-iron frypan.
"I saved your life. Three times," Trofim's expression turns serious, but I know he's a manipulative prick. "I lost a kidney after that last shooting, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
"Do you know what kidneys go for on the black market?" I ask. "Ten to twelve million. Fifteen if they're in pristine shape. I gave you a one hundred-million-dollar bonus."
"Lucky I didn't lose my liver," he says cheerfully. "It's in such shit shape that I'd have to pay them. I know what's on the Bratva side of the agenda today, but since your schedule has been… unsettled for the last two days, I don't have an update on the legitimate side."
Trofim hates my legitimate side. When he was first assigned to me as my Vtoroy, my Second in Command by Uncle Maksim, he was politely horrified. He is one of the highest ranked and most cunning security officers in our organization.
When he realized that he would be required to accompany me for legal business, too, he broke out in hives.
To this day, if he is forced to escort me to court or any other activity that doesn't involve guns and murder, he still breaks out in hives.
He keeps a tube of hydrocortisone and calamine lotion in the glove compartment of every car we use.
"I have two more social calls to make to solidify my nomination," I say, flipping through some notes on my iPad.
"You should have the security specs for the Four Seasons ballroom; I'm speaking at a luncheon there for the New York State Environmental Coalition.
Then, we'll pay a visit to Senator Carlisle Sinclair at his Manhattan office. "
"Senator Sinclair?" he laughs. "Oh, good. That skol'zkiy ublyudok is firmly on the illegal side of the agenda today!"
"You would be correct," I agree. Carlisle Sinclair is a loathsome piece of shit. His family has been getting countless millions in kickbacks from military contracts that he has awarded, thanks to his seat on the Senate Intelligence Committee.
"It's extremely offensive when the government starts horning in on our business," Trofim says disapprovingly.
"Though I hear he's graduated to murder.
Didn't The Manhattan Chronicle have an investigative reporter who suddenly disappeared last month?
She was about to publish a story about Sinclair's political funding sources from international entities. "
"I'm certain that that was the senator's doing," I agree.
"One of our MacTavish business contacts in London was complaining that the owner of the New London Times was found with sixteen broken bones and two missing fingers.
After that, the year-long investigative piece the crime desk had been conducting on Sinclair's European real estate holdings was suddenly pulled. "
Tapping my phone absently, I look out the window. "Surely we have a reporter high enough in the food chain to see an investigation through, especially if I threw them some helpful information."
Trofim grins, "I can arrange security for them at all times."
"It would look better if the Carlisle was brought down by legitimate means instead of the Morozov Bratva.
Though, as soon as that fuck gets transferred to his country club prison, I'm going to have him shanked the first night, perhaps have someone carve out his kidneys. Then I could give one of them to you."
"There's the unhinged violence and bloodthirsty retaliation I've been waiting for!" Trofim says happily. "Allow me to get started on that project for you."
"Please do." I fire off my last text and roll my shoulders to get rid of the ache. Four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight has not been particularly restorative, but I've had too much work to do.
"What is your beautiful bride doing this morning?" Trofim leans forward, scanning the street when we stop at a red light.
"At this moment, she's being greeted by Melina and her new security detail. I'm sure she'll be rushing to see her twin sister immediately."
"I hate to say this…" He's uncharacteristically serious. "But this marriage would work out better if you would just move her sister in with you. Peeling those two apart is going to be incredibly difficult."
My connection to my twin brother Nikandr stretched thin after he married Caroline. I don't blame her, nor him. But our casual calls and late-night discussions are further and further apart. It is what it is.
The luncheon goes well. I smile politely for the reporters, though I'm ready to knock one's microphone right through his teeth when he pushes it too close to my face.
The meeting with Senator Sinclair will be abysmal. My twisted sense of justice has been burning inside me for weeks, eagerly looking for an outlet. For someone to destroy, a well-deserved slaughter and no one deserves it more than this man.
"Well, there you fucking are!" Carlisle chuckles, his hand raised to slap me on the back before he catches my expression and steps back. He's a true zhadnyy mudak, a greedy asshole, but he has a strong survival instinct.
Or, maybe not. "You're out doing business, Morozov? I thought you'd be busy fucking your beautiful young wife." His smile fades as I examine him silently for a long, excruciating moment.
"Imagine, Sinclair, if someone had said that about your daughter," I say. He can feel the frost dripping from every word. "You'd have to beat the hell out of someone like that, wouldn't you? I believe your youngest, Diana, is about my wife's age."
There's an ugly, mottled flush coming up from his neckline and staining his cheeks red.
He's tall, with silver hair that he has colored every month for a "senatorial look," and the ruddy nose of an incipient alcoholic.
"Of course, it was a joke," he chuckles, less heartily.
"A well-intentioned one, but not appropriate, eh? "
I don't let him off the hook, keeping silent a while longer until we're relaxing in the seating area in his office.
The Senator's office here in the state is remarkably luxurious for a man who claims to be, "of the people.
" I'm quite sure that Monet over the fireplace is genuine.
The crossed sabers on the wall behind his ridiculously enormous desk that he claims belonged to General Washington, most likely did. "How's life in D.C.?"
"Oh, you know," he groans elaborately. "Ninety pounds of bullshit in a ten-pound bag. Bloated bureaucrats and whining lobbyists, it never ends."
I smile thinly. "Your patience is unparalleled."
"Truth," he grunts, accepting a drink from his slender young assistant, who brings me over a tray with a glass of Macallan.
"The Senator noticed that you drank this at your party the other night, Mr. Morozov," she smiles nervously. "So, he requested that I find a bottle of the Macallan 25 Year Sherry Oak for your meeting today."
"Thank you." I nod, taking the glass without looking at her again. No wonder this fucking pervert is so comfortable joking about my wife. His assistant looks fresh out of high school. She leaves, shutting the door carefully behind her.
"Now, there's one lawsuit I've been following closely," he says, sharp eyes watching me over his glass. "The Aragonite Data Center project is close to my heart. You know how important it is that we keep growing the AI infrastructure here in the state."
Of course he is. Sinclair's a silent partner in the project. He'll clear at least five hundred million dollars if the data center is pushed through.
I smile at him pleasantly, swirling my drink.
"I believe that they're still bogged down with the environmental study.
The lawsuit is meant to overturn the initial approval of the plan, recommending the project be tabled for now.
That's more of a county issue than a judicial one. I'm not sure when we'd hear the case."
"Well, these sorts of cases - when they're in the best interest of the state's infrastructure - can move up surprisingly quickly. I want to know I can count on you when it comes before the Court."
"A fifty-eight-billion-dollar deal, as I recall," I muse.
"More important is national security and technical infrastructure." Sinclair yaps on for another five minutes but I've seen what I needed to know. He's desperate, filling his glass twice more, rocking forward briefly at one point before catching himself.
One way or another, he's on the hook for this deal.
Interesting.
When I step back out into the main lobby, Trofim's flirting shamelessly with the receptionist while my other guard, Slava, stands with his meaty hands folded and a look of resignation on his face.
He's used to my Second's never-ending quest to burn through half the globe's female population before he drops dead. Every man has a dream.
"Back to Morozov Global, boss? Or do you need to see the Sovietnik for anything?" Trofim abandons the receptionist, but not before leaving his business card.
The taste of that Macallan is slick in my throat.
It should have a relaxing burn, but merely being in Sinclair's company for an hour sours my stomach.
"Do you have any word from Melina on my wife's activity?
" I'd given Iris her phone back, but I know she won't be checking in with me until I insist that she does.
"Yes, she updates me every two hours. They've been at her old apartment with Rose this afternoon." He chuckles. "Melina says there's been a lot of tears and wailing. Mostly from Rose."
I don't understand women's tears. Men usually weep when you're torturing them or they're being sentenced to life in prison. Women let loose for everything. Happy or sad, hungry, or if they saw a chipmunk in the park. Still, two hours of sustained sobbing seems like overkill.
"Let's go pick up my wife." I check my watch irritably. "I'm sure her sister Rose will have some sort of dramatic pronouncement before I can remove Iris from her soggy clutches."
***
Skol'zkiy ublyudok - Russian for slimy bastard.